


F(r)iends with Benefits

by karmula



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hanzomaker, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Recall, Strap-Ons, widowhanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 18:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12281946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmula/pseuds/karmula
Summary: The tattooed archer is bent face-down over one of the coffee tables in the empty Watchpoint: Gibraltar break room, a purple hand holding him in place by the small of his back.





	F(r)iends with Benefits

**Author's Note:**

> Some super self-indulgent Widow/Hanzo because WHERE IS THE CONTENT FOR THIS SHIP... More to come (perhaps)

Well, at least now I know whether people can be friends with benefits without actually being friends first, Widowmaker thinks, sliding two fingers inside Hanzo’s slick entrance with practiced ease. They disappear up the second knuckle, then the third, each section drawing from her -

Friend? Partner? Whore? Even after all their sessions together, she is hesitant to label him as anything other than an acquaintance, as somehow distinguishable from the rest of this new generation of Overwatch recruits.

\- from Hanzo a low moan, more growl than anything.

The tattooed archer is bent face-down over one of the coffee tables in the empty Watchpoint: Gibraltar break room directly below the orbital rocket launch site, a purple hand holding him in place by the small of his back. The other is wedged between two firm ass cheeks. Widowmaker curls her index finger around her pointer and curls the two, so that the tips of two manicured nails drag along the sensitive inner flesh. Without waiting to gauge Hanzo’s reaction, she deftly adds a third digit. The sudden, increased penetration elicits another throaty moan: success.

“Amelie!” Hanzo gasps, unable to control himself.

At the sound of her name, however, Widowmaker withdraws her fingers as quickly as she had inserted them and cracks the back of her hand against Hanzo’s rear, leaving a stinging red handprint behind.

“Widowmaker. _Je suis Widowmaker_.” The words are accompanied with a glare that stings almost as hard as the imprint of her hand on his ass still does, although perhaps they did not sting as much as they do penetrate. They bore into him, those eyes, yellow and green and colourless all at once. They bore into him as they bore into all her victims. “I am not her.”

At once Hanzo cries out, then stifles the noise as quickly as possible, remembering how much she had hated his whining the last time. “I - I apologise,” Hanzo stammers, and when he turns his head over his shoulder to look at her she sees that his eyebrows are drawn together in what appears to be genuine remorse. He casts his eyes downward again, unwilling or perhaps unable to meet her gaze any longer. “It won’t happen again.”

Widowmaker doesn’t care for apologies. Rather, it is that last half-whispered promise, the thought that she has intimidated this grown man enough that he is too embarrassed to even maintain eye contact with her that sends a chill of excitement down her spine, that is more than enough incentive to pick up where she had left off.

For both of them, this is an arrangement of convenience, an outlet of sorts. And much as she’d like to have everyone believe that she was totally without feeling, Widowmaker enjoyed their meetings. That was the reasoning behind this whole agreement, for her at least. While Hanzo fucked to forget, she fucked to feel. Not to mention it was a better workout than what was offered at the watchpoint gym. Got the blood pumping, so to speak.

Even so, these sessions were not without rules, and, though there were only ever two participants, they were not without hierarchy, either. It was vital to assert dominance in any relationship, Widowmaker knew. This - whatever _this_ was - was no exception.

It was vital to show him who’s on top.

Widowmaker grins at the fittingness of the double entendre as she clambers back on top of him, sitting so that she straddles his waist, and drags him further along the table underneath her. When she’s finished, his knees scrape the edge of the tabletop and she is repositioned at the meeting of his backside and thighs.

“You’re already wide open for me, _mon chéri_ ,” Widow all but purrs, beginning to stroke the toy belted around her waist, dangling enticingly between her thighs. Like the fruit of some alien plant, just begging to be tasted.

The process is entirely performative, of course; she can’t feel her palm wrapping around the faux cock’s impressive girth, can’t feel her fingers teasing its tip. It’s only a toy, not a programmable prosthetic or the real thing. But the friction, she imagines, is delightful against Hanzo’s flesh, already covered in goosebumps.

Hanzo’s breath is audible, his broad back rising and falling with the heavy intake of oxygen as he struggles to keep his head from spinning. The bright lights overhead cast his skin in eerie whiteness, so that he looks more doll than human, more porcelain than flesh. In this shadowscape, this realm of black and white, where somehow the grey of their relationship still manages to thrive, the tattoos sprawled across his back look as if they could come to life. Dragons seem to snap and snarl with each flex of his rippling muscles. Clouds pass through the treacherous landscape, wrap around his torso and return again, an ever present storm.

Widowmaker has a sudden urge to kiss the plane of skin spread before her, to taste as much of him as she can. If she sucks until the skin is red raw, will she taste the ink? Can she alter the pattern?

Instead, she slips two fingers into her mouth, coats them with saliva, and begins to tease Hanzo’s gaping entrance in earnest. The ensuing warmth, the tightness, the smell of sweat and skin and pure, unadulterated _sex_ that permeates the air is intoxicating, and perhaps she imagines it, but Widowmaker swears she feels her heart beat a fraction faster in her chest. Desperate to cling to that rush, she extricates her fingers with a pop and, grasping the strap-on tightly, guides it to the space she has left behind.

With each thrust, Hanzo silently thanks the heavens for the cool metal pressed against his stomach. His skin is already clammy with sweat, has been this entire time, but he can’t imagine how unbearable the heat would be if not for the fortunate construction of the watchpoint, conveniently designed to withstand the hottest of Mediterranean days.

The pace Widow sets is hasty at first, urgent. Hanzo rocks into the motions, unable to help himself from crying out as Widowmaker experiments with the length of the toy, thrusting harder, penetrating deeper. It’s unsurprising to see him break down like this, little more than putty in her hands. Widowmaker is famously stronger than she looks. She _is_ an assassin, after all. Talon-trained, and Overwatch-trained before that, too.

She grips the tabletop until her knuckles turn a pretty shade of lilac, sweat crystallising lightly at her hairline, the push and pull of rope-like, well-worked muscles evident just beneath the surface of her biceps and thighs as she rolls her hips, bucking against, bucking _into_ his tight, round ass. Again, and again, and again.

“Please, don’t stop,” Hanzo huffs, burying his head into his arms, ashamed of just how much he needs this. His cock is wedged painfully between his body and the table, his exposed head swollen and dribbling precome onto his taut abdomen. Between thrusts, he attempts to hover his pelvis a little above the metal tabletop to ease the building pressure, but Widowmaker’s insistent pace makes it a fruitless effort.

“Widowmaker, please,” he says breathlessly, five simple syllables punctuated by almost double the number of grunts and groans. The delivery is terrible, but the message remains clear.

“You want to come?” Widowmaker coos, slowing down and settling into a slow grind, in and out.

Hanzo nods wordlessly, sliding one hand underneath his weight and wrapping thick fingers around his rock-hard cock. His eyes narrow to slits immediately at the contact, sheer ecstasy so powerful it would buckle his knees if he weren’t already being spread and fucked on a horizontal surface. How fortunate.

“Please,” he whispers again, stroking with laboured breaths from base to tip. A solitary vein tics above his balls, a campaign for inclusion in the evening’s events. He gives them a squeeze before returning to his shaft, tugging eagerly. He holds back from emphasising how desperate he is, from telling her he can’t wait much longer, even though it’s the truth. Impatience will only earn him punishment.

After one last series of thrusts, Widowmaker withdraws from him completely and orders him to his knees. He obliges, his hand never leaving his cock, and she assumes his place, perched on the edge of the table.

“I believe I’ve assisted you enough, haven’t I, Shimada?” she smirks, hiking one leg onto the table and leaning on it. The pose is evidently a power play. The gleaming lips of her cunt are completely exposed, and at the same time she stretches, flexing the powerful muscles in her arms and legs. Hanzo feels an overwhelming urge to gulp, but finds his throat is bone-dry.

Widowmaker strokes her chin, as if deep in thought. “ _Oui_ , I’ve been much too kind. I think if you would like to come, you should work for it yourself, _non_?”

More wordless nodding. At least this time he gets a chuckle. It’s low, and sounds more like a rumble than an outright laugh, emanating from deep within her throat.

She leans forward, her lips a hair’s breadth from his own. “So come for me.”

It doesn’t take him long; as she had said, the brunt of the work had been done already. A little alternating between more languid, then feverish strokes, a few upward glances and then - release, sweet, glorious release.

It isn’t until the last milky strand hits his thigh and he reaches up to mop the sweat from his brow that he realises she’s gone. That at some point, his part-time lover had unfolded those long legs of hers and slunk out of the break room, as silently as she had entered at the beginning of their session, leaving behind only a few beads of hot stickiness on the edge of the table as evidence that she had ever been there at all.


End file.
